fem!mako is⌠a joy, a delight, she is my salty, angry darling. she is tired of life closing its jaws around her throat, she is bristling with silent resentment at every task she keeps secret from bolin. her chest is full of lighting, the storm gathers in her eyes. in the winter she hides in the public library until after closing and stays warm and dry among the books, reading them long after bolin falls asleep, his head in her lap. she is working at the power plant, towering over the benders, her muscles aching with effort, her thighs burning as she leans forward with swift precision, fingers pointing into the heart of the machine, the city lives off the forgotten; she is cutting her hair short with rusty scissors, it looks cleaner that way. she leaves bolin safe and sound with a bowl of noodles at narookâs to cry in the alleyway after zolt tells her she has to run double the numbers from now on, or theyâre both out; he knows sheâs smart enough, he knows sheâs strong enough, he knows sheâs cunning enough; every compliment is a trap, a small manipulation, tugging her towards the edge, it is all she can do to turn and face it with her head up. fine. this is what it will be -Â
and then mako is on the probending platform, her uniform chafing around her torso (it was made for a man but she wears it anyway, because it was the only one left lying around) and the rules say no crossing the line, no physical hits, no shots to the face, and with adrenaline racing like fire and oil in her veins she breaks every rule. toza pulls her aside and tells her sheâs not allowed, thatâs not how to play; and she almost spits in his face because she remembers zolt leaning in close and pointing out the scar that splays across a manâs face like a white hand; that was the cost of losing, that was the price of playing fair. nothing has ever been fair to her.Â
she lies awake at night in the attic above the probending arena, watching the lights glitter and shimmer across the skyline, listening to bolin breathe deeply in his sleep. there is no dirt under her nails: her hands are clean, she has been careful not to scar them. she canât probend unless she follows the rules. which rules? Who made them this time? she is talented, toza says. she is a natural. what do these compliments feel like? they feel like - she shakes them off. no compliments.
in the morning she stands on the platform again for scrimmage, tugging on the uniform, and this time she doesnât cross the line, she doesnât crack her opponentâs helmet with an elbow to the face, she doesnât blister his nose with fire. she wins. after, she does not shake his hand. Its not against the rules. No oneâs rules but her own, and her only rule is survive.
vaporwave
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2087
